In Chancery, by John Galsworthy

Chapter 4

Soho

Of all quarters in the queer adventurous amalgam called London, Soho is perhaps least suited to the
Forsyte spirit. ‘So-ho, my wild one!’ George would have said if he had seen his cousin going there. Untidy, full of
Greeks, Ishmaelites, cats, Italians, tomatoes, restaurants, organs, coloured stuffs, queer names, people looking out of
upper windows, it dwells remote from the British Body Politic. Yet has it haphazard proprietary instincts of its own,
and a certain possessive prosperity which keeps its rents up when those of other quarters go down. For long years
Soames’ acquaintanceship with Soho had been confined to its Western bastion, Wardour Street. Many bargains had he
picked up there. Even during those seven years at Brighton after Bosinney’s death and Irene’s flight, he had bought
treasures there sometimes, though he had no place to put them; for when the conviction that his wife had gone for good
at last became firm within him, he had caused a board to be put up in Montpellier Square:

FOR SALE
THE LEASE OF THIS DESIRABLE RESIDENCE

Enquire of Messrs. Lesson and Tukes,
Court Street, Belgravia.

It had sold within a week — that desirable residence, in the shadow of whose perfection a man and a woman had eaten
their hearts out.

Of a misty January evening, just before the board was taken down, Soames had gone there once more, and stood against
the Square railings, looking at its unlighted windows, chewing the cud of possessive memories which had turned so
bitter in the mouth. Why had she never loved him? Why? She had been given all she had wanted, and in return had given
him, for three long years, all he had wanted — except, indeed, her heart. He had uttered a little involuntary groan,
and a passing policeman had glanced suspiciously at him who no longer possessed the right to enter that green door with
the carved brass knocker beneath the board ‘For Sale!’ A choking sensation had attacked his throat, and he had hurried
away into the mist. That evening he had gone to Brighton to live. . . .

Approaching Malta Street, Soho, and the Restaurant Bretagne, where Annette would be drooping her pretty shoulders
over her accounts, Soames thought with wonder of those seven years at Brighton. How had he managed to go on so long in
that town devoid of the scent of sweetpeas, where he had not even space to put his treasures? True, those had been
years with no time at all for looking at them — years of almost passionate money-making, during which Forsyte, Bustard
and Forsyte had become solicitors to more limited Companies than they could properly attend to. Up to the City of a
morning in a Pullman car, down from the City of an evening in a Pullman car. Law papers again after dinner, then the
sleep of the tired, and up again next morning. Saturday to Monday was spent at his Club in town — curious reversal of
customary procedure, based on the deep and careful instinct that while working so hard he needed sea air to and from
the station twice a day, and while resting must indulge his domestic affections. The Sunday visit to his family in Park
Lane, to Timothy’s, and to Green Street; the occasional visits elsewhere had seemed to him as necessary to health as
sea air on weekdays. Even since his migration to Mapledurham he had maintained those habits until — he had known
Annette.

Whether Annette had produced the revolution in his outlook, or that outlook had produced Annette, he knew no more
than we know where a circle begins. It was intricate and deeply involved with the growing consciousness that property
without anyone to leave it to is the negation of true Forsyteism. To have an heir, some continuance of self, who would
begin where he left off — ensure, in fact, that he would not leave off — had quite obsessed him for the last year and
more. After buying a bit of Wedgwood one evening in April, he had dropped into Malta Street to look at a house of his
father’s which had been turned into a restaurant — a risky proceeding, and one not quite in accordance with the terms
of the lease. He had stared for a little at the outside painted a good cream colour, with two peacock-blue tubs
containing little bay-trees in a recessed doorway — and at the words ‘Restaurant Bretagne’ above them in gold letters,
rather favourably impressed. Entering, he had noticed that several people were already seated at little round green
tables with little pots of fresh flowers on them and Brittany-ware plates, and had asked of a trim waitress to see the
proprietor. They had shown him into a back room, where a girl was sitting at a simple bureau covered with papers, and a
small round, table was laid for two. The impression of cleanliness, order, and good taste was confirmed when the girl
got up, saying, “You wish to see Maman, Monsieur?” in a broken accent.

“Won’t you sit down, sir, please? Tell Maman to come to this gentleman.”

He was pleased that the girl seemed impressed, because it showed business instinct; and suddenly he noticed that she
was remarkably pretty — so remarkably pretty that his eyes found a difficulty in leaving her face. When she moved to
put a chair for him, she swayed in a curious subtle way, as if she had been put together by someone with a special
secret skill; and her face and neck, which was a little bared, looked as fresh as if they had been sprayed with dew.
Probably at this moment Soames decided that the lease had not been violated; though to himself and his father he based
the decision on the efficiency of those illicit adaptations in the building, on the signs of prosperity, and the
obvious business capacity of Madame Lamotte. He did not, however, neglect to leave certain matters to future
consideration, which had necessitated further visits, so that the little back room had become quite accustomed to his
spare, not unsolid, but unobtrusive figure, and his pale, chinny face with clipped moustache and dark hair not yet
grizzling at the sides.

She was one of those generously built, fine-faced, dark-haired Frenchwomen, whose every action and tone of voice
inspire perfect confidence in the thoroughness of their domestic tastes, their knowledge of cooking, and the careful
increase of their bank balances.

After those visits to the Restaurant Bretagne began, other visits ceased — without, indeed, any definite decision,
for Soames, like all Forsytes, and the great majority of their countrymen, was a born empiricist. But it was this
change in his mode of life which had gradually made him so definitely conscious that he desired to alter his condition
from that of the unmarried married man to that of the married man remarried.

Turning into Malta Street on this evening of early October, 1899, he bought a paper to see if there were any
after-development of the Dreyfus case — a question which he had always found useful in making closer acquaintanceship
with Madame Lamotte and her daughter, who were Catholic and anti-Dreyfusard.

Scanning those columns, Soames found nothing French, but noticed a general fall on the Stock Exchange and an ominous
leader about the Transvaal. He entered, thinking: ‘War’s a certainty. I shall sell my consols.’ Not that he had many,
personally, the rate of interest was too wretched; but he should advise his Companies — consols would assuredly go
down. A look, as he passed the doorways of the restaurant, assured him that business was good as ever, and this, which
in April would have pleased him, now gave him a certain uneasiness. If the steps which he had to take ended in his
marrying Annette, he would rather see her mother safely back in France, a move to which the prosperity of the
Restaurant Bretagne might become an obstacle. He would have to buy them out, of course, for French people only came to
England to make money; and it would mean a higher price. And then that peculiar sweet sensation at the back of his
throat, and a slight thumping about the heart, which he always experienced at the door of the little room, prevented
his thinking how much it would cost.

Going in, he was conscious of an abundant black skirt vanishing through the door into the restaurant, and of Annette
with her hands up to her hair. It was the attitude in which of all others he admired her — so beautifully straight and
rounded and supple. And he said:

“I just came in to talk to your mother about pulling down that partition. No, don’t call her.”

“Monsieur will have supper with us? It will be ready in ten minutes.” Soames, who still held her hand, was overcome
by an impulse which surprised him.

“You look so pretty to-night,” he said, “so very pretty. Do you know how pretty you look, Annette?”

Annette withdrew her hand, and blushed. “Monsieur is very good.”

“Not a bit good,” said Soames, and sat down gloomily.

Annette made a little expressive gesture with her hands; a smile was crinkling her red lips untouched by salve.

And, looking at those lips, Soames said:

“Are you happy over here, or do you want to go back to France?”

“Oh, I like London. Paris, of course. But London is better than Orleans, and the English country is so beautiful. I
have been to Richmond last Sunday.”

Soames went through a moment of calculating struggle. Mapledurham! Dared he? After all, dared he go so far as that,
and show her what there was to look forward to! Still! Down there one could say things. In this room it was
impossible.

“I want you and your mother,” he said suddenly, “to come for the afternoon next Sunday. My house is on the river,
it’s not too late in this weather; and I can show you some good pictures. What do you say?”

Annette clasped her hands.

“It will be lovelee. The river is so beautiful”

“That’s understood, then. I’ll ask Madame.”

He need say no more to her this evening, and risk giving himself away. But had he not already said too much? Did one
ask restaurant proprietors with pretty daughters down to one’s country house without design? Madame Lamotte would see,
if Annette didn’t. Well! there was not much that Madame did not see. Besides, this was the second time he had stayed to
supper with them; he owed them hospitality.

Walking home towards Park Lane — for he was staying at his father’s — with the impression of Annette’s soft clever
hand within his own, his thoughts were pleasant, slightly sensual, rather puzzled. Take steps! What steps? How? Dirty
linen washed in public? Pah! With his reputation for sagacity, for far-sightedness and the clever extrication of
others, he, who stood for proprietary interests, to become the plaything of that Law of which he was a pillar! There
was something revolting in the thought! Winifred’s affair was bad enough! To have a double dose of publicity in the
family! Would not a liaison be better than that — a liaison, and a son he could adopt? But dark, solid, watchful,
Madame Lamotte blocked the avenue of that vision. No! that would not work. It was not as if Annette could have a real
passion for him; one could not expect that at his age. If her mother wished, if the worldly advantage were manifestly
great — perhaps! If not, refusal would be certain. Besides, he thought: ‘I’m not a villain. I don’t want to hurt her;
and I don’t want anything underhand. But I do want her, and I want a son! There’s nothing for it but divorce — somehow
— anyhow — divorce!’ Under the shadow of the plane-trees, in the lamplight, he passed slowly along the railings of the
Green Park. Mist clung there among the bluish tree shapes, beyond range of the lamps. How many hundred times he had
walked past those trees from his father’s house in Park Lane, when he was quite a young man; or from his own house in
Montpellier Square in those four years of married life! And, to-night, making up his mind to free himself if he could
of that long useless marriage tie, he took a fancy to walk on, in at Hyde Park Corner, out at Knightsbridge Gate, just
as he used to when going home to Irene in the old days. What could she be like now? — how had she passed the years
since he last saw her, twelve years in all, seven already since Uncle Jolyon left her that money? Was she still
beautiful? Would he know her if he saw her? ‘I’ve not changed much,’ he thought; ‘I expect she has. She made me
suffer.’ He remembered suddenly one night, the first on which he went out to dinner alone — an old Malburian dinner —
the first year of their marriage. With what eagerness he had hurried back; and, entering softly as a cat, had heard her
playing. Opening the drawing-room door noiselessly, he had stood watching the expression on her face, different from
any he knew, so much more open, so confiding, as though to her music she was giving a heart he had never seen. And he
remembered how she stopped and looked round, how her face changed back to that which he did know, and what an icy
shiver had gone through him, for all that the next moment he was fondling her shoulders. Yes, she had made him suffer!
Divorce! It seemed ridiculous, after all these years of utter separation! But it would have to be. No other way! ‘The
question,’ he thought with sudden realism, ‘is — which of us? She or me? She deserted me. She ought to pay for it.
There’ll be someone, I suppose.’ Involuntarily he uttered a little snarling sound, and, turning, made his way back to
Park Lane.